


The Journal

by spelledink



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: Diary/Journal, F/F, Love Confessions, Mirandy Pile of Stuff 2020, Romance, Writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:06:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25350598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spelledink/pseuds/spelledink
Summary: Miranda finds Andy's journal, in their hotel suite. She foolishly reads it. Will this be an end, or a beginning?
Relationships: Miranda Priestly/Andrea Sachs
Comments: 34
Kudos: 185
Collections: Mirandy Pile of Stuff 2020 Wednesday Prompts





	1. The Secret Book

**Author's Note:**

> For the Mirandy Pile of Stuff 2020 Wednesday Prompts (week 3)  
> Picture prompt: Andy writing in bed
> 
> Just a short little diary fic, with romance.

**_The Journal_ **

**A Devil Wears Prada fanfiction**

**This story is a nonprofit work of fanfiction**

**The Devil Wears Prada is the property of Lauren Weisberger and 20th Century Fox.**

**For the Mirandy Pile of Stuff 2020 Wednesday Prompts (week 3)**

**Picture prompt: Andy writing in bed**

**“There is only one happiness in life, to love and be loved.” (George Sand)**

* * *

Andy Sachs was a writer. Even if she didn’t, at her job. Her duties at _Runway_ were varied, unrelenting. Challenging, to say the least. Yet writing was not among them. Even if she wished it so.

Still, Northwestern had drilled one maxim into her head: writers _write_. And so, she did. Each night, before going to bed. A fact that had annoyed her former boyfriend, Nate. Andy had grown tired of his petulance about it, and her job. The childish arguments, and demands for sex. As if her wants, her dreams, were somehow less than his.

Nate was long gone. But Andy’s habit remained. A nightly ritual. Her journal, a thing treasured. A glittering magpie’s trove of stories, thoughts, and poetry. Of things imagined, and dreamed of. Her deepest hopes, and wildest fantasies.

And feelings, long locked within. For one woman. Imperious, infuriating, _intoxicating_.

_Miranda._

It was therapy, of a sort, Andy reckoned. A way to loose her clenched desire. For Miranda could never know. Never see the truth, so deep, within her eyes.

_The love._

The thought frightened and exhilarated her in equal measure. How she longed to give herself to Miranda. Recklessly, joyously, if only for one night. Yet it could never be.

And so, she wrote. Hoping to ease her fretful yearning. Exorcise it, with each indelible stroke.

Andy sighed, her pen still. Held aloft, waiting. Laying in her bed at the St. Regis hotel. Clad in a white linen nightshirt. Her knees bent, covered by a floral blanket, dusty mauve and pink. The journal resting upon it. A candle by her side, tawny light flickering across the page. Staring at the words scattered across it.

 _Your eyes capture me. Pin me down. A suppliant, bent before your altar. Heart and body offered. Let me burn. Upon your lips, upon your skin. All of me._ _This gift, laid bare, to you._

Andy frowned. Wrinkling her nose at the book, the words that scattered across it. Her thoughts like leaves, gold and scarlet, dashed upon the wind. Evanescent, like grasping at shadows. A pale echo of the thing that trembled, within her breast.

“Why should I bother?” she wondered. “It’s all very simple. Easy to say. Except to _her_.”

_I love you._

And so, her silence. Her words locked within the book. Unsaid. Bound in leather and vellum. No tongue to give it life, or fire.

The sound of a koto rang through the room. Six notes, scaling up, repeating. Andy dropped the book. Leaning towards the nightstand. Grasping the iPhone upon it, its face lit. Her picture appearing upon the screen. A pair of redheads beside her, smiling.

_Cassidy, Caroline._

A familiar voice greeted her. “Six, what are you doing?” Nigel said. “We’re downstairs, at the King Cole. Come have a drink.” Andy winced. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to drink tonight. We’ve got a show at MoMA tomorrow.”

Nigel chuckled. “Miranda put us up in the swanky digs,” he said. “We should take advantage of it. Besides, we’re three minutes from the show. A cocktail or two won’t hurt.” Andy groaned. “I don’t know, Nige,” she said. “I just settled down with my journal. I’m in my p.j.’s.” Nigel scoffed. “Casual chic will work, Andy,” he said. “Now get down here.” Andy shook her head. “Okay,” she replied. “I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

Andy threw her blanket to the side, standing up. She marched to the walk-in closet. Pulling a pair of dark blue Michael Kors skinny jeans from a wooden hanger. Selecting a white Carolina Herrera button down shirt next. She looked down. Picking up a pair of Valentino suede ankle booties, embellished with silver buckles. She peeled off her oversized tee. Shaking out her auburn hair. Revealing the white lace La Perla bra and panty set beneath. Changing, she blew out her candle. Headed downstairs, locking the door behind her. The journal left, pages bared, upon the rumpled bedclothes.

* * *

Miranda Priestly entered her room in the St. Regis’ presidential suite, eager for a shower and a warm bed. A bottle of chilled Riesling lay atop the table inside, in a white marble wine cooler. Two glasses beside it. Miranda smiled. She’d order a little snack from room service and call it a night. She paused, thoughtful. Running slender fingers through her silver bob.

_Should I get Andréa something?_

A light blush climbed Miranda’s cheeks. Her thoughts full of the beautiful brunette. Always so attentive, kind. Brown eyes warm, and full of care.

_It’s only right I take care of her, too._

Miranda crossed to the bedroom door opposite her own. She reached out one hand, hesitant. Rapping at the dark oak door. No reply from within. Her hand fell to the bronze doorknob, turning it. Opening the door. A tousled king bed lay before her. The white coverlet pulled to one side, as if someone had left in haste. Miranda neared the bed. A warm scent rose from the linens. Sweet berries and pear, gardenia and frangipani. Miranda paused, breathing it in, a smile gracing her lips.

_Andréa._

Something caught Miranda’s eyes, half obscured by the duvet. A book, open upon the bed. Words in a graceful hand peeking from beneath the covers. A journal. Miranda’s mouth fell open, her eyes wide. A flush of heat rushing through her. She leaned closer, as if compelled. Her hand stretching out for the volume. Eager to see what lay within. She paused, shame and curiosity warring within.

_Just one look._

She snatched the journal from beneath the linens. Scanning the open page, astonished. Breathless, as she drank in Andréa’s words. Lips moving, silent, to each one.

_Each time I see her, it’s like coming home. Fingers tingling as they brush against hers, surrendering the morning coffee. Averting my eyes, lest I get lost. In cobalt pools that beckon, wishing I could fall forever. Such heavenly torture. So near, yet lightyears away. Aching for her command._

Miranda lowered the journal to the bed, overcome. She stood, eyes upon it, arms wrapped around herself. Fingers clenched, wishing she could hold the girl. Her thoughts ablaze, eager to quiet them upon a kiss.

 _All this time. All this time, she could have been mine._

_I could have been hers._

A gasp at the door roused her. She turned, eyes falling upon the book’s author. Andréa, confusion knotting her features. Full lips parted, a deep blush painting her cheeks. She stared at Miranda, then looked past her. Spying the open journal, on the bed. She shook her head, eyes brimming with tears. “Tell me you didn’t,” Andy said. “Please, Miranda.”

Miranda bowed her head, abashed. “I can’t,” she said. “I… I’m sorry. I don’t know why I did. I know I shouldn’t have.” Andy glared at Miranda. Her voice low, mortified. “How could you?” she asked. “Do you realize what you’ve done? How humiliating this is?”

Miranda crossed to Andréa, features dark with shame. Her voice soft, an entreaty. “I know,” she said. “I know I’ve hurt you. But I didn’t _mean_ to.” She let out a shuddering breath, blinking back tears. “That’s the last thing I’d ever want.”

Andy pulled away from Miranda. “Just go,” she said. She gazed at Miranda. Her expression raw, pained. “You’ll have my letter in the morning.” Miranda gaped at Andy. “Letter?” she asked. “What do you mean?”

Andy stared at Miranda, something struggling behind her eyes. Words and wishes left unsaid, never to be told. “My resignation,” she whispered.

Miranda’s eyes widened, panic thrumming in her heart. “No, you can’t!” she said. Andy sighed. “How can you expect me to stay?” she asked. “Knowing that you know, like _this_.” She shook her head. Her voice low with grief. “What a cliché,” she said. “Someone like me, falling…” Her voice stalled; its return hushed. “Falling in _love_ , with you.”

Andy fled, rushing to the outside door. Her footsteps hurried, fading down the hall. A moan left Miranda’s lips, something breaking within. She fell to her knees, tears falling. Hands fisted on the white carpet.

Alone.


	2. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miranda bares her heart to Andy, afraid that she will go.

Miranda sat in her room, the only light the small reading lamp above her bed. Clad in a Natori plume-lace charmeuse chemise, light blue. Hands in her lap, fingers trembling upon an object. A moleskine, bound in leather, emerald green. She slipped the black elastic band aside. Flipping it open. Tears threatening as she read.

_Her eyes captivate, ensnare me. Each fleeting touch addictive. Leaving me wanting. How I wish to show her. Tell her. Place my heart within her hands, rose red. To give her everything of me. I didn’t think it would happen. Not now, not so late. After all these years, all my mistakes. To fall in love, so completely. To need someone, as dearly as air._

_My Andréa._

If only she’d told her how she felt, before breaking her trust. Violating her, in such a way. Stealing, uninvited, into her heart’s sanctuary.

_Now I’ve lost her._

At least she could do this. Offer some recompense. Bare her throat, heedless of outcome. Give herself over, to whatever punishment Andréa deemed fit.

_I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!_

Miranda rose, book in hand. Leaving her room, padding across the suite. Halting before Andréa’s door. Pale amber light leaked from beneath, spilling across the carpet. Miranda raised her hand. Knocking on the door. She bit her lower lip, summoning a bit of courage. “Andréa, may I come in?” she said. “Please.” From within, there came the sound of someone rising. Footsteps drawing near. The doorknob turned; the barrier pulled open.

Andréa stood before her. In a Lise Charmel floral lace chemise, cherry red. Dark eyes weary, somber. She turned, stalking towards the bed. Sheets and blankets messy, disheveled. A familiar book upon it. Its cover, toffee brown, closed. “What do you want?” Andy asked, her tone curt.

Miranda crossed to the bed, hesitant, her eyes upon Andy. Her voice a penitent whisper. “To give you this,” she said.

Miranda sank to her knees, the moleskine in her hands, offered up. “I’m sorry I hurt you,” she said. “I’d do anything to take it back.” She bowed her head, tears littering the floor. “So, _punish_ me. Do whatever you want. But please, please don’t shut me out. Don’t leave. I couldn’t bear it if you did.”

Andy turned, gazing at Miranda. Prostrate before her, the book held out. She snatched the moleskine away, opening it. Eyes widening as she read.

_I know I’ve taken something from you. Something precious. A thing I cannot return. Looking for assurance, without consent. Afraid to show myself. To say the words, locked within my heart. The secret I guarded, so jealously, like your smiles._

_I love you._

_And I’ll spend the rest of my life proving it, if you’ll forgive me, this once._

Andy knelt, the book falling from her fingers. Pulling Miranda to her. Dark eyes searching cobalt blue. “Tell me this is true,” she said. Her voice low, trembling. “Tell me this is real. Tell me you want this, that you want _me_.”

Miranda nodded. A smile, breaking through tears. Soft, shy, full of hope. “I do,” she said. “I do, so very much. I’m… I’m in _love_ with you, Andy.”

Andy kissed Miranda. Lips slow, gentle, claiming her mouth. They swayed together upon the carpet, delighted fingers roaming. Sinking deeper into the kiss. Tongues brushing, a contended hum in Andy’s throat. They parted, eyes wide, marveling at each other.

“I’m still mad,” Andy said, a smile growing upon her face. “But I think I can forgive you. If we can do more of this.” Miranda scoffed, glancing about them. “On the _floor_ , Andréa?” she said. “Really?” Andy chuckled. “Well, there is a perfectly good _bed_ ,” she said. “Fluffy pillows and everything.” A pink blush rose to Miranda’s cheeks. “That sounds… acceptable,” she said.

Andy rose, scooping up the moleskine. She held out one hand, helping Miranda to her feet. Leading her to the bed. Reclining upon it. Tossing the book to her feet. Miranda smiled, joining Andy. Eyes dark as she hovered above her. Pressing a lingering kiss to Andy’s lips. Promising delight yet to come.

Andy giggled, pulling Miranda to her. Wrestling on the bed a moment, as they fell together. Kicking the moleskine aside, opening it. Revealing Miranda’s words, in looping script. Cerulean ink bright upon the page.

_Let me show you. Let me tell you. Each word, inked upon my heart. Engrave them on your skin, with each touch. Write them in the language only lovers know, with fingertip and tongue._

_An open book, for you alone._


End file.
